"Pass me that wrench, will you?” Becker Denoga's voice cut through the garage's oily silence. She didn't look up from the motorcycle engine she was elbow-deep in, black twin tails tied back tight. Her turquoise shirt sleeve had ripped further at the shoulder seam. A heavy wrench clattered onto the workbench beside her. "You're gonna strip the bolt," a low voice warned. She glanced sideways. The boy with the red ribbon tied around his forehead leaned against a dented tool cabinet. His green eyes tracked her hands, unblinking. Fair skin smudged with grease. Becker straightened, wiping her hands on her ripped jeans. "Says the guy who rebuilt his carburetor backwards." She reached for a rag, her turquoise shirt riding up slightly as she stretched. The movement was pure mechanics, no thought behind it. He pushed off the cabinet, the red ribbon stark against his messy brown hair."That was one time. And it ran." He stepped closer, the scent of engine oil and something faintly sweet—maybe the pomade in his hair—filling the space between them. His green eyes didn’t leave hers. “Unlike this heap.”
Becker snorted, tossing the rag aside. "This 'heap' is a '72 CB350. Show some respect." She turned back to the engine block, but his presence lingered like static. She could feel the heat of him just behind her shoulder, the worn leather of his vest brushing her arm as he leaned in to peer at the valves.\n\nHis finger traced a grease smudge on her forearm. "Respect is earned, Denoga." The touch was deliberate, feather-light but electric. She froze, wrench hovering over a stubborn bolt. His breath stirred the loose hairs at her nape. "Like knowing when to admit you need help.” Becker’s knuckles whitened on the wrench. "I don’t." But her voice hitched as his other hand settled low on her hip, thumb pressing just above the frayed edge of her jeans pocket. The garage’s fluorescent light hummed, casting sharp shadows that made his green eyes look almost unnervingly bright. Engine oil and that sweet, elusive scent clung to him. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
The word was a low vibration against her skin. His fingers slid beneath her torn sleeve, tracing the curve of her shoulder. She shivered, the wrench slipping from her grip to clang against the concrete floor. The sound echoed, too loud in the sudden stillness. Becker turned, pressing her back against the cold metal of the workbench. His hands settled on either side of her hips, caging her in. The red ribbon in his hair was a slash of color against the grimy garage walls. "What do you want?" she breathed, her pulse hammering in her throat. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up, green eyes darkening.He didn't answer. Instead, he closed the last inch between them, his lips crashing against hers with bruising intensity. Engine grease and that sweet pomade flooded her senses as his tongue swept into her mouth. One hand tangled in her twin tails, tugging her head back to deepen the kiss. The other slid under her torn shirt, calloused fingers tracing the curve of her waist. Becker gasped against his mouth, her hands fisting in his blue vest. She tasted metal and salt—his sweat or hers, she couldn't tell. The workbench dug into her spine, cold through the thin turquoise fabric. His hips pinned hers, the hard line of his arousal unmistakable against her thigh. The red ribbon brushed her cheek like a brand.\n\nHis fingers left her hair to yank her shirt collar aside, exposing her collarbone. His teeth grazed the skin there, sharp and claiming. She arched into it, a moan tearing from her throat as his free hand slid lower, hooking into the rip in her jeans. Calloused fingertips found bare skin above her knee, inching higher. The rough drag of denim against her thigh was a counterpoint to the slick heat of his mouth moving down her neck. He bit the curve where shoulder met throat, hard enough to bruise, and Becker gasped, nails digging into the leather of his vest. "Ribbon," she managed, the nickname breathless. His answering growl vibrated against her skin. His hand, still hooked in the tear of her jeans, slid higher, fingertips tracing the crease where her leg met her hip. The calluses snagged on her skin, a delicious friction against the softness beneath. He pulled back just enough to look at her, green eyes molten. The red ribbon was askew, strands of brown hair plastered to his temples. Without breaking eye contact, he sank to his knees on the oil-stained concrete. The sudden shift in height, the deliberate lowering, sent a jolt through Becker. He gripped her hips, fingers pressing hard into the ripped denim, and pulled her forward until the edge of the workbench bit into the backs of her thighs. His gaze held hers, unblinking, as his hands moved to the button of her jeans. The metallic *snick* was obscenely loud in the humming silence.
Becker’s breath hitched as he yanked the zipper down, the sound rough, urgent. He didn’t look away, his eyes pinning her in place as he tugged the jeans and her underwear down just far enough. His own movements were quick, efficient – the rasp of his zipper, the shift of black fabric. Then he was there, hard and hot against her inner thigh, the tip brushing her skin. He leaned forward, his breath hot on her stomach, his gaze still locked onto hers, a challenge and a promise. "Open," he commanded, the word low and guttural. She obeyed instinctively, shifting her stance, her hands gripping the cold metal edge of the workbench behind her. The sudden press of him was startling, blunt and insistent. He pushed forward, a slow, deliberate invasion that forced a gasp from her lips. The stretch was sharp, intense, then eased into a deep, filling pressure. He paused, buried fully inside her, his forehead pressed against her lower tummy. She could feel the tremor in his shoulders, the raggedness of his breathing against her skin.His hands slid up her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her jeans, anchoring her. He pulled back almost entirely, leaving her achingly empty – it all blurred into a single, overwhelming sensation centered on that relentless push and pull. Becker arched, her twin tails brushing the dusty bench surface, a choked moan escaping her as he hit something deep inside that sent sparks behind her eyelids.He leaned in, biting the tender skin of her exposed stomach just above her jeans, his tongue soothing the sting before he looked up. His green eyes, hooded and dark, locked onto hers. The red ribbon was damp with sweat
."Feel it?" he rasped, his voice thick, punctuating each word with another hard thrust that forced a gasp from her throat. "Feel how much you needed this?" His hand slid from her hip, calloused fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves above where they were joined, applying rough, perfect pressure. Becker’s head slammed back against the workbench, twin tails tangling in spilled bolts as she cried out. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across his straining shoulders. His rhythm grew frantic, erratic—deep, punishing strokes that made her vision blur. She felt the coil inside her snap, a white-hot wave cresting as he groaned her name against her skin, his fingers digging bruises into her hips. Then he pulled out abruptly, hot release hitting her chin, her lips, her cheekbone in thick, pearlescent streaks that smelled sharply of salt and musk.\n\nHe sank back onto his heels, breathing ragged, green eyes glazed. The red ribbon clung to his sweat-slicked forehead. Becker stared down at him, trembling, the taste of him metallic on her tongue. Her jeans were still tangled around her thighs, the ripped denim gaping. Slowly, deliberately, she slid off the bench onto her knees on the oil-stained concrete. She didn’t break eye contact as she leaned forward, her black hair falling around her face like a curtain. Her tongue flicked out, tracing a wet, deliberate path up the gleaming chrome teeth of the chainsaw resting beside them. The cold metal tasted of gasoline and rust."
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